


My Onion Night: A Game of Thrones Tale

by youngjarvis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Anal Fisting, Dark Magic, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Sex, M/M, Medieval Medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2368220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngjarvis/pseuds/youngjarvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Davos tries to confront his liege lord Stannis about Melisandre's dark magic, but an assassination attempt brings them closer than ever...as lovers. Gay lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Onion Night: A Game of Thrones Tale

My Onion Night: A Game of Thrones Tale

 

The fires burned so high from their nest on the shores of Dragonstone that they nearly lapped at his own feet. Even in the gently swaying bridge connecting the towers of the ancient Targaryen stronghold, he was surrounded by the embers dancing from their blasphemous source below.

Thank goodness I’m not a god. Davos thought to himself. The Red Woman had begun her ritual burning of the statues of the Seven gods. The wooden statues were arrayed in a ring for the sullen population of Dragonstone to observe. Their painstakingly carved features broke off and charred as the sorceress shouted her platitudes about the weakness of man and the power of her red god. Davos had begged away on some muttered excuse; Stannis rarely lorded his authority over him, and he knew he would not on this occasion. The new king himself did not appear to Davos to be a true believer, but he clearly recognized the charisma and power of his new priestess.

The Onion Knight turned away from the bonfire in disgust, fingering the rope of the bridge with what was left of his hand and chewing sourleaf as he walked. Along the ropes and pillars of the bridge, two cats pawed and batted at each other. Davos was not an especially godly man; growing up in King’s Landing had taught him to mistrust the servants of the Seven. There were too many stories about lusty, overfed septons and their taste for their supple young male acolytes. Still, it was the Mother he prayed to when Marya was giving birth to their seven children. Gods, seven! He loved them all, but they cost him much and more, and not just to feed.

His kinsmen always applauded him on his marriage to his wife, patting him on the back for his comely choice. Marya was plump of breast, pleasing to the eye and always ready with a lamprey pie when he returned from a voyage. Yet, when it came down to the deed of providing her with child, it had seemed more chore than pleasure. They had tried as many positions as there were stars in the sky, but the only one that had kept his blood flowing was one where she faced down and he took her womanhood from behind. She seemed shamed at that; she was quiet about it, but after one and twenty years of marriage there were no true secrets. Still, it had given them seven dutiful sons and for that he was thankful to the gods. The gods that his lord had turned his back on.

“The night is dark and full of terrors!” While he was lost in thought, the gathering had begun to break at Melisandre’s oft-repeated words, solemnly marching back to the Dragonstone gates, leaving the gods in a pathetic, crackling rubble on the shore. Even from his perch on the Sea Dragon Tower, Davos could sense the paralyzed silence following the ceremony. The Red Woman’s colorful exhortations had made an impact on the inhabitants of Dragonstone. Namely, fear, at least in the peasants and villeins who scratched a meager living out of the stony crags of the Targaryen island.

Battered by the Narrow Sea, Dragonstone’s land was parched and fallow, one of the least arable of the holdings of the great houses. The weather was no better, a fact that the smallfolk didn’t bother to complain about, even at the few taverns available to them. The inhabitants of Stannis’ domain were a obedient but dolorous people, much like their liege lord himself, an observation visiting nobles amused themselves with in their whispers as if they were each the first to think of it.

Davos often retreated to the Sea Dragon tower to be far away from such false, flattering men, but also to be close to the stars that guided him as a smuggler in his previous life. Davos looked down once more dolefully on the ruined gods, and turned to descend the countless winding steps of the tower to meet his master. He held his torch ahead of him as he carefully mounted each step of the sleek, obsidian citadel. He knew the crenellations by heart, but as his rapidly silvering beard was telling him, he was no longer the Davos that could afford to miss a step and shrug it off the next morning. He was more like to end up in the maester’s chamber, in a haze of milk of the poppy. “You’ve been on the sea so long, it’s the salt in your hair.” Marya told him, stroking his ashy cheek before he left her once again for Dragonstone. Seven bless her, the woman did try for affection. Davos had never found a way to adequately return her advances. There was the occasional groping in the night after a night at the tavern in their youth, but they were fumbling efforts and he more often fell asleep in a drowsy stupor.

His foot missed the step as he mired himself in the regrets of his past. He caught himself on the jagged stones jutting from the stairwell, and resolved himself to keep in mind his task. He arrived at the Great Hall just as the highborn present at the ritual had made their exit for the evening.

The highborn of Dragonstone had more boisterously proceeded ahead of their vassals, some obsequiously praising the red priestess on her sermon, others more reticently nodded in their approval. As of late, the knights and nobility had separated into two camps, those who accepted Melisandre’s red god were called “queen’s men”, for Queen Selyse had become fully devoted to her cause. Those who still clung to the Seven were “king’s men” for their King Stannis.

Davos made his way through the departing crowd of lords, king’s and queen’s men alike. Their muttered words of “onion knight” and disdainful stares scarcely bothered him anymore. As long as Stannis held faith in him, being called an upjumped smuggler behind his back mattered little.

The self-proclaimed king of the Seven Kingdoms leaned against the colonnaded railing that presided over the coast, gazing at the crashing waves below and apparently deep in thought.

“Your grace, I wondered if I might speak to you.” He had stopped himself from saying “my lord,” two words that would earn him a glare as cold as beyond the Wall, now that Stannis had declared Prince Joffrey to be the product of incest and no rightful king.

“You are speaking to me right now, Ser Davos.” Stannis did not look away from the sea as he spoke; it would be hard to say what he needed to say while he was in one of his dark moods, but he would try nonetheless.

“I was hoping we could speak alone…” and gave a sidelong glance to the Red Woman who loomed not far as always, the Great Hall’s torches illuminating her crimson cloak and giving her look of a living flame. Stannis turned his head to her and thought for a moment, “Leave us, Melisandre.” She stared at Davos with those unnatural red eyes and without looking away for a second, nodded and left.

They were alone at last, only the wind whipping the flames of the torches and the waves crashing on the shore broke the silence. Davos had considered for a long time what he would say to his king, but it didn’t make it easier now that he was here.

“Your grace, these ceremonies...I’m not sure if they’re the right way to win over the people. They’ve never known anything else but the Seven.” Stannis continued to gaze at the sea, his jaw clenching the only sign that he registered what he said. His icy silence began to make Davos nervous; Davos was probably the closest thing Stannis had to a friend, but even their relationship was uneasy. After Stannis raised him from a smuggler to a knight after the siege of Storm’s End, his life was spent in service to his liege lord. And yet, even Davos could not penetrate the nebulous thing that was Stannis Baratheon’s mind.

“Melisandre,” he turned slowly to face Davos, “is going to help me take the Iron Throne. She has seen it in her flames. If she needs to set a few more, than so be it.”

“But will your subjects follow a king who doesn’t share their most basic beliefs? At the very least, can she be kept to the towers, not scaring the wits out of the smallfolk? They’ll get restless-” Stannis cut him off with a wave of his hand and paced towards the Painted Table, an enormous table that functioned as a detailed map of Westeros.

“I won’t have any subjects to rule if I don’t become king. The Lannister woman won’t stand for my ravens calling her an adulteress and her whelps bastards. They’ll have ships at our shores soon enough if I don’t take the throne.” He stared into the torch, the light draping his gaunt, angular features. “She has powers, Davos.”

The door to the chamber opened and a footman with a serving plate set up a decanter and two goblets of wine, then turned to leave.“I’ve heard rumors. Dark powers. I don’t like it.” He glanced away for a moment, looking towards the door.  “Your grace, I don’t recognize that cupbearer.” At that, the cupbearer turned about face, a glint of light flashing past him and towards Stannis. The king recoiled and looked down at the dart now embedded in his thigh.

Davos grabbed his knife and leapt over the Painted Table, flying above the Iron Islands and the Neck for a brief time and crashing into the fleeing assassin. Davos’ hand hovered above the man’s neck as he attempted to push the knife away. “You ought to tend to your king. That’s manticore venom going through his veins.” Laughing as he struggled, the assassin, a ruddy-faced and small man, could only hold Davos’ wrist away for a while before the Onion Knight drove it into his gullet, hot blood erupting as he withdrew.

Uncowed by the attempt on his life, Stannis limped over to Davos’ side, but collapsed as his leg gave out under him. “You fool,” Stannis breathed heavily, holding his thigh and wincing. “You should have interrogated him.”

“There’s no time your grace, I have to remove the poison.” Forgetting for a moment all the pretensions of court life, he ripped his lord’s trouser pant to expose the wound. “And besides we both know who sent him.”

The wound was purple around the area where the dart entered. He would need to act quickly. “And how do you plan on doing that? Send for Melisandre, now.”

“Dark magic? I’ll not call the red bitch. There’s no time for that anyway, your grace.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that, but propriety was not the first thing on his mind as bowed his head to Stannis’ thigh, his lips wetting the wound. He took a breath, and began to suck deeply. As the bitter poison hit his tongue, he immediately spat it out onto the ground, and went down to continue.

Stannis gritted his teeth and stopped himself from screaming in the agonizing pain he was certainly experiencing, a feverish sweat covering his reddening face. Davos wrapped his hand around his inner thigh, pressing the poison to the surface of the wound. As Davos’ calloused hands squeezed his leg, he was struck by the formidable muscles pulsing and twitching beneath his hands, dense and hard. Robert was always the Baratheon brother best known for his strength, Renly for his charm. But Stannis was a battle commander in his own right, and had a potent warrior’s physique under the doublets and jerkins required of a man of his station.

Stannis grabbed out at Davos’ arm, clenching it tightly as the poison coursed out of his body and into his servant’s mouth. The poison was beginning to diminish and each time he sucked from his thigh, there was less and less to spit out. Finally, after there was none left to extract, he took a drink from the wineskin at his belt, swished the wine around his mouth and spat it all out in a red stream on the stone floor.

The pain subsiding, Stannis released his grip on Davos and collapsed back onto the floor, breathing heavily. “I’ll need to dress the wound.” Davos looked around for cloth, but Stannis had already ripped at his tunic, exposing his heaving chest and towering rib cage that looked as if to burst from his body. “I can scarcely breathe, I do not need another layer.” Davos duly wrapped the remnants of the tunic around Stannis’ thigh, gently tying and cinching it so as to not inflict any more pain. Davos noticed quite the opposite reaction; as he dressed the wound gingerly, Stannis’ trousers rose as a pavilion at a joust, and underneath them, a knight’s lance.

Perhaps it was the excitement of the near-death encounter; Stannis couldn’t be… Davos tried to ignore this sight but his heart was racing and his palms were sweating. He knew Stannis’ guards would be here any second but he wished they would never come, if just for a moment they could explore what this meant.

“Help me rise, Davos.” The knight stared blankly for a moment, his gaze drifting to Stannis’ bulging trousers. He scarcely noticed that Stannis had reached out his arm to get up from the floor.

“Oh. Oh yes, of course your grace.” He took his strong hand in his, their hands locked and so did their eyes. Davos pulled him up, but not on his feet but instead to his mouth, bringing his lips to Stannis’, their mouths entwined in a forest of ash-colored bristles. For a moment, Davos had his hand wrapped around his liege lord, and it didn’t matter that it had no fingers. He was his.

But only for a moment. Their solitude was smashed down as if with a battering ram, as the door fell down and Stannis’ guards fell in. Their embrace broke and Davos lifted him to his feet, albeit with a limp.

“Your grace, we only just saw. Ser Alyn and Ser Norman, both dead at their post.” They took Stannis from him, propping him above their shoulders. He shook them off, “I’m no cripple,” and hobbled towards the door.

“A Lannister assassin, dressed as a servant. He must have killed them on his way in. He would have done the same to me, if not for Ser Davos.” The guards nodded at him gratefully. “We must bring you to the maester, your grace.” Stannis limped a little farther, and looked back at Davos once more.

“I’ll forgive your remarks about Melisandre as a temporary madness.” His voice was flinty and terse. But his eyes, dark blue and deep-set like a pool in a cavern, betrayed a warmth few knew from Stannis.

 

✤

 

Davos drowsily woke up much past dawn, his sleep interrupted by dreams he couldn’t remember. Then he remembered Stannis and his rapid heartbeat cut right through the haze of sleep. Could it all have been a feverish dream? He licked his lips and tasted the faint metallic tang of manticore venom. I suppose not. He was going to be late; Stannis’ family and most honored knights broke their fast soon, and he was expected to be eating capon and eggs by now.

Descending the stairs from his chamber, he arrived at the Great Hall once again, but this time to the smell of toasted bread and smoked fish. He took a seat across next to Maester Pylos, across from Ser Robert. Gods, what a formidable knight, Davos thought. Knighted at the incredible age of four and ten, Ser Robert was one of the most fierce and liel knights in Stannis’ household guard and was universally beloved of those at Dragonstone. If only all of Stannis’ followers could be so loyal and strong.

Ser Robert nodded with a smile at him from across the table and dug into a plate of sausages. Beside him sat Stannis and Queen Selyse silently breaking their fast. Davos looked to him as much as possible, hoping for some kind of acknowledgement or assurance that their embrace the previous night was not imagined. He did not receive satisfaction. Indeed, Stannis seemed to avoid his gaze completely, instead scowling at his plate and ignoring his wife.

“We cannot wait! This will not be the last assassin the Lannisters send. We should send the fleet now.” Axell Florent, Hand of the King and Queen Selyse’s brother, turned pink as he excoriated no one in particular. It was a ceremonial position meant to cement the loyalty of the only major house adhered to Stannis’ cause. Stannis called on Melisandre and Davos for counsel on anything of import. Now he will barely acknowledge my presence. Why won’t he look me in the eye?

“In time, Lord Florent. We must wait for a good omen from R’Hollor,” said Melisandre, referring to what most called simply The Red God. Stannis remained silent, stabbing at his potatoes but eating nothing. By contrast, Ser Robert eagerly devoured an especially large smoked sausage, wrapping his lips around it to savor the juices as they dripped down the long smooth shaft.

“With respect, Melisandre,” He said this with as much disdain as he could muster without being treasonous. “Rehorlor will not put Lannister heads on spikes, good men with swords will. And they are restless.” Melisandre gave him a measured look stood up to issue a riposte, but Ser Robert lurched up first, coughing and clenching his throat.

“Somebody help him!” Selyse rose to her feet, clutching Stannis’ arm. He stood up as well, shrugging her off violently. “Release me woman,” he said, and took Ser Robert from behind, wrapping his arms around his chest, and pulling inward. The knight’s face went dark red as he continued in his struggle to breathe. Davos stood up as well, tension rippling through his body, but not with concern for Ser Robert. To see Stannis holding a man, even to save his life, made him seethe. This is what Robert Baratheon must have felt when Rhaegar gave the victor’s rose to Lyanna Stark at that notorious joust.

Stannis pressed and pressed his chest, his pelvis thrusting against Ser Robert’s. Davos’ fist clenched until his fingernails drew blood in his palm. And then the sausage flew from the knight’s mouth, sliding across the table until it landed squarely on Davos’ lap. He picked it up, gazed at it, and threw it disgusted back on the table. Ser Robert thanked his king through his coughing fits while lords and ladies tended to him.

“Was it poisoned? Another Lannister plot!” the crowd was excited by this development. Davos handed the smoked meat to Maester Pylos, who observed it keenly with his looking glass obtained from his billowing cloak. “It does not appear to have any traces of poison. It is a rather large sausage though. I will bring it back to my chambers for observation” The meat disappeared into his cloak and he vanished up the stairs.

“I think we’ve had enough excitement for one morning. You may all leave.” Stannis said with his hands on the table, implying that it was not as much an offer as it was an order. Davos turned to leave as well but was stopped at his voice. “Ser Davos. Stay.” Then it was his heart’s turn to stop. Isn’t this what I desired? But what does he want with me?

“I have a task for you Ser Davos. One only you can perform for me...adequately.” His heart was racing like a Dothraki stallion.

“Anything your grace.” He said, approaching Stannis with a renewed glimmer of hope. They were alone in the Hall of the Painted Table, just as before. And Stannis was as inscrutable as before. Unreadable, his eyes sat  And yet, something drew his hand to Stannis’ chest, as if driven by not by his mind but but some dark urge. Is it darkness or light though?

Stannis looked down at Davos’ rugged hand, his eyes expressing nothing and his jaw clenched as usual. Instead, with his right hand he gently peeled it off and with his left placed a roll of parchment in it.

“What’s this? Your grace, you know of course that I cannot read. It is my shame, but-” Stannis cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You are to bring it to Maester Pylos in his chambers. He may be a doddering lackwit, but I can trust he can read a list of instructions. Deliver to me what he gives you from the letter. ” Davos nodded, regaining his knightly countenance. I am as lost as ever, but if this is Stannis’ order, it must be of importance.

“May I ask-” Stannis’ voice cut like a icy northern wind, “No you may not. Do not fail me in this task Ser Davos.”

  
  


✤

When he reached Stannis’ chamber, the storm was still in full force and lightning illuminated and struck the fearsome Targaryen dragon statues atop each tower. Meraxes screamed at the sky, his jaw opening as if to swallow the lightning bolt entirely. Balerion, sat rather peaceably, letting the the rain drench him.

He hesitated for just a second, before ascending the final stair to his destination. Once there, the guards let him in without question. Stannis’s chamber was austerely but handsomely appointed with leather chairs, shadowcat-skin rugs and a desk made from fine Qohori darkwood. At the corner of the room, Stannis brooded, hunched over the balcony which overlooked the statue of Vhagar. Second eldest of the dragons used by Aegon to conquer Westeros, Davos wondered if this was coincidence or design.

“I trust you brought me what I asked for.” He said nothing, but handed the satchel to Stannis. He arranged the contents on his desk with care and purpose, the foremost being the large book the maester was so curious about. Stannis studied the volume for what seemed like hours, not taking his eyes away at all. Aside from the letters Davos could not read, there were pictures of men and diagrams of what looked to be organs. Finally Stannis broke the silence.

“The Anatomy and Cavities of Man.” He closed the book with a thud that dispelled dust from the table. “I’ve read nearly all of Grand Maester Aemond’s texts, but I hadn’t any use for this ponderous tome. That is until now.” He paced back to the balcony, the wind whipping around the sleeves on his leather jerkin.

“Robert was always the warrior, but a berserker at best. No mind for strategy or subtlety. Always trying to prove himself a man, even when we were boys. Bedded any barmaid or whore that came across his path, and browbeating anyone who showed an inch of restraint into doing the same. He made a bastard on one of my wife’s handmaidens, the day of our wedding, you must know.” Davos did not nod in assent but followed Stannis’ pacing around the chamber.

“And Renly. No doubt you’ve heard the rumors of his nocturnal activities. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms has. His dalliances with the men of the court. Making eyes at my knights from across the table, padding in the night into chamber doors.” Stannis’ jaw gritted more and more as he spoke.

“I am aware that I am beloved of many. Respected perhaps, but not loved. Selyse tries, but she has never been strong of mind, and now follows the Red Woman around like an enamored child. It will not do. But you, Davos. What you did for me in the Hall of the Painted Table. That was devotion. That is what I crave. What I have indeed craved my entire life.” He closed the gap between him and Davos, putting his slender but strong hand on his shoulder, and with the other, cupped his gray and bristly jaw.

“You have always been a faithful servant, even when I chopped off your fingers with a butcher’s cleaver. But you have proved yourself more than that, more than another upjumped low-born climbing the ladder. You risked life and limb for your king. But I must ask you to serve me one more time, Davos Seaworth. Will you serve your king?” Finally, Davos had found the chink in Stannis’ impenetrable armor. And he intended to drive his weapon deep.

His brown eyes locked with Stannis’ as Davos wrapped his good hand around his master’s neck and he pushed their lips together furiously as if there were no feudal bonds between them. Stannis’ close-cropped facial hair scratched audibly against his own formidable beard as their lips played a tug of war. Stannis’ mouth, stretched taut and thin in his role as ruler, fell loose in Davos lips, warm and wet, but vivacious. Davos became bold, moving down Stannis’ neck until he thought blood would be drawn. Stannis pushed their bodies closer, innervated by the pain, until Davos could feel his king’s manhood resting against his own leg.

Can this truly be happening? Davos’ hand moved over Stannis’ broad and muscular chest, exploring the contours of his ribs and spine until it fell to his thigh, brushing against Stannis’ quickly rising dragon, burning hot and pulsing with an intensity that took Davos aback. He reached in to meet this creature, unlacing the king’s trousers, but Stannis took his hand instead and guided him over to the leather chair, where he sat down.

“Kneel for me, Davos Seaworth.” Davos did as he was bid. “I don’t want you to spit. Not like the poison. Your king wants you to swallow.” He said this unsmiling, but rather as an imperious king. Davos nodded dutifully and bent his neck between Stannis’ thighs, taking hold of what was presented to him and wrapping his lips around it. He rode this dragon back and forth as Aegon the Conqueror rode Balerion into battle, conquering the Seven Kingdoms. Only Davos was conquering his king’s heart. And as dragons do, this one breathed fire and not before long, did so into Davos, warming his throat and sending Stannis reeling deep into his chair in ecstasy, his legs shuddering for a moment until finally relaxing.

Davos reached for his wineskin and drank deep. He sat back to rest on his laurels, but rather than relaxing, Stannis stood up with alacrity to once again pore over the Grand Maester’s book. He loomed over it thoughtfully as if it was a battle plan. Davos joined him, surprised at his ardor after such an experience.

“There is one more thing I must try.” Stannis rifled through the weathered pages, dust dancing in the light of the candles and illuminating the king’s face. Davos admired his rough-hewn features, his cheekbones that shadowed his jaw, as dark and strong as an anvil. He dropped his hand on one page of etched illustrations. “This.” Davos looked down and his almond shaped eyes grew to something more like chestnuts.

“Your grace, is- is this even possible?” He nodded, but with apprehension. “It is, Ser Davos. But it is difficult. I cannot do it alone, and Selyse...she did not have the stomach for it.”

“But you,” he lifted Davos’ hand, the one he himself shortened at the first knuckle, “you are the perfect man for the task.” Davos looked down at the illustration again. This was uncharted territory. But he would explore it with Stannis.

“How can it be done?” Davos relented. Stannis jaw relaxed into what could almost be called a smile. He turned the page and pointed out a new etching. “It’s called the ‘blooming orchid,’ ” and he produced a glass bottle from the maester’s satchel. “This will help.” The substance glowed green like wildfire in the candlelight and moved languorously in the bottle. I surely hope that it does.

Stannis removed his leather jerkin and small-clothes with the brazen carelessness only a king could exhibit. He could sense Davos’ reluctance.

“I don’t expect a low-born from Flea Bottom to know the intricacies of the laws of the Westeros. Indeed, they deem what Renly does a crime in the eyes of law and man. This is not that. I am a king, and you are my trusted, loyal servant. If satisfying the needs of your king is against the land’s law, then I will strike it down when I take the Iron Throne.” His assurance was all Davos needed to hear.

Freeing himself from the tunic that the rain adhered to his chest,  he mounted the bed where Stannis had positioned himself on his hands and knees. He uncorked the glass bottle, and sniffed it but for a moment; it had the scent of olives. Pouring it over his left hand, he pursed his shortened fingers until they were shaped like a closed orchid. Taking in a deep breath, he teased Stannis’ seven-pointed star with his knuckles, inserting one but recoiling with obvious hesitation.

“You were once the finest smuggler in Westeros. I need you to bring those skills to bear tonight.” Davos breathed again, and started to say a silent prayer. Which god do I pray to for this? He slid each knuckle in with deliberate speed, steeling himself, until each was inside his king, gently twisting his hand. Remembering the illustrations, he proceeded until he felt the described hill, and then massaged it with what fingers Stannis hadn’t taken.

Stannis’ entire body shuddered as Davos’ fist moved slowly back and forth for hours. Davos’ nervousness evaporated as he saw the clear ecstasy in his master’s visage. He’d never felt so much power in his life until this moment. Can the Red Woman do that? Not with all of her dark magic. And yet, it seemed as if his arm was Lightbringer, her Red God’s flaming sword, deep in the embers of a towering pyre.

And when Davos finally brought Stannis to final climax, a red sun was rising over the Narrow Sea and the rain had long since stopped. They lay in a sweaty tangle on the bed, gasping for breathe, their legs entwined.

“I’ve always wondered what you could do with that fist. Now this has been answered for me.” Stannis caressed his abdomen with his slender fingers and played with the ashen hairs on his chest.

“Do you regret taking off the fingers, your grace?” Davos touched the stubs that topped his fist.

“The laws are the same for smugglers as they are for hero smugglers. And now that I’ve seen what you’re capable of, I certainly don’t regret it.”

The king leapt up naked from the bed without warning, as if rejuvenated by the hours of pleasure offered to him by Davos. He joined him at the windswept balcony, watching the sun rise.

“What now, your grace? You have a council meeting today.” Indeed, what happens now?

“Yes. To discuss the Lannisters. I suppose we are going to war, Ser Davos.” He sighed and his eyebrows lowered. “War is not a tourney, no matter what my brother Renly pretends. There will be no time for...pleasure.” Davos dipped his head knowingly.

“And yet, I will by necessity be away from the queen for a long time. War is no place for women. And even the king has needs.” Whales in the middle distance breached the surf, shooting salt water out of their blowholes. Gulls cried and perched themselves on the monumental dragon statues. And perhaps it was a trick of light, but Stannis’ complexion seemed to Davos pinker and healthier, his eyebrows less furrowed. In fact, it seemed as if even a smile had broken through.

 

 


End file.
